


Rumor Has It

by ShadPhenix



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe of an Alternate Universe, F/M, Humor, POV Second Person, Reader-Insert, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-04
Updated: 2021-02-22
Packaged: 2021-03-14 08:21:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28542465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShadPhenix/pseuds/ShadPhenix
Summary: Life as the Sanctuary's only dedicated baker isn't too bad. You have a room, your best friend, and just enough points to buy an old CD player. Considering you aren't having to run from the dead or fight for your life on a daily basis, you think things are going pretty well for you. That is, until someone starts a rumor that you're Negan's newest wife.
Relationships: Negan (Walking Dead)/Original Female Character(s), Negan (Walking Dead)/You
Comments: 38
Kudos: 95





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LadyLuck22](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyLuck22/gifts).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to LadyLuck22 for the idea for this piece. This basically uses the OC "Sugar" from the fic with the same name, but you don't need to have read that story at all to follow this.

“What's this I hear about you marrying the top dog?” your friend Krys demanded when they caught you in the middle of the factory floor. “And how come I had to find out about it through the grapevine instead of from you?”

“Hey, Krys.” You turned to them, making sure it was clear to the four people behind you that you were still in line. “What are you talking about?”

Krys was a couple of inches taller than you and had light brown skin and angles in all the right places on their face. They kept their head shaved and had a knack for repurposing just about anything into makeup or some other stylish accessory. Today, they wore dark kohl around their eyes highlighted with a splash of something silver. They put their hands on their hips. “People are saying you married Negan last night.” 

“What? Really?” you chuckled the word out. You found the idea more than ludicrous. “Me and Negan?”

“It's not true then? He hasn't asked you?”

“Well, he might’ve suggested it a time or two, but he wasn't serious.” And usually, such "proposals" were issued when he had his mouth full of some baked treat or another. In your experience, the things people said when they were eating good food should be taken with the same grain of salt as words said during sex.

“So he has asked.” 

“Definitely not. Besides,” you moved as the line inched up, “could you imagine sitting around a parlor every day dressed for a funeral? Hard pass.”

Krys laughed. “You mean sitting around and being glamorous instead of trimming lice-infested hair all day? Sure, that'd be a real sacrifice.” 

You shuddered, glad that you weren't stuck cutting hair. Krys had been a cosmetologist in another life. “I don't know. Finding weevils in the flour every couple of months is pretty gross.”

“Damn, don't tell me that. I ate like three of your biscuits this morning.”

You laughed. You'd taught Home Ec before and had been put to work as the resident baker when you'd arrived at the Sanctuary. “Don't worry. This morning's batch was bug free.” You finally reached the front of the line and could barely contain your excitement. You'd been working extra time to save enough points to get an old cd player for the scratched up old boyband album you'd found ages ago. You told the tired-looking, elderly vendor what you wanted.

“Oh, yes, ma'am, I have one of those.” She pulled out the player, an old, clunky thing with a built-in radio that you hadn't even seen on a store shelf for years before the dead started walking. “What else can I get you?" she asked. "Batteries? Sleeve of miscellaneous CDs? An iPod?” She pulled out each item as she mentioned it.

Wow, you hadn't had customer service like this since, well, ever at the Sanctuary. “No, thanks,” you told her. You didn’t really have the points for anything else. The player had an AC cable, so as long as it worked, you'd be good. You told her as much. 

“You sure? I want him to know I took real good care of you.”

“Him?”

“Your husband,” the woman emphasized.

“Uhh, husband?” She must have you confused with someone else. That or maybe Krys wasn't the only one to hear the bizarre rumor that you'd married Negan.

The woman leaned forward, raising her eyebrows and dropping her voice, “And Number 56 has dresses that he'll like, you know, if you wanted to change out of  _ that _ ,” she finished, eyeing your stained, torn, and scorched shirt and pants. 

You looked down at your raggedy outfit. You'd skimped on newer clothes so you could afford the player. But you didn't get out of the kitchen much, so it really didn't matter. “Sure, okay. I'll keep that in mind I guess. Can I just, uhh…?” you trailed off and waited for her ledger. When she passed it over, you scribbled your number.

“Oh honey,” she said, “now that you're one of Negan's wives, you got to sign your name.”

Krys, who'd been beside you this whole time, elbowed your ribs. “See?”

You gulped. “But I'm not--”

Krys cut you off. “She's just not used to it. Know what? She'll take the CDs and the batteries too.” 

The lady raised an eyebrow. “You want them?”

Both the vendor and Krys were giving you expectant looks. Behind you, people in the line were starting to grumble. “Yeah, sure,” you finally agreed, and signed your name over the number you'd written previously, hoping you weren't simultaneously signing your own death warrant. 

Krys grabbed your things for you as you moved out of line, trying to figure out why people suddenly thought you were with Negan. “Krys,” you said, as you walked away, “we can't take this stuff. There's been some kind of mistake.” 

“A mistake in your favor,” they insisted. “We are going on a shopping spree.”

“We can't go on a shopping spree. The truth will come out eventually, and Negan will be furious. You've seen what he does to people who break the rules.” The memory of some idiot who'd gone against Negan's rules getting his face burned with a hot iron flashed in your mind.

“So you'll charm your way back into his good graces with a pan of cookies," Krys said, wrapping an arm around your shoulders. "Girl, we are living in the End Times. You need to get yours while you can.”

All things considered, it was a pretty solid argument. Why not enjoy a few of the remaining luxuries in life? You could sort things out later. After all, you and Negan were sort of friends.

  
  
  
  


\---

  
  
  
  


“Jesus,” Negan said as he sauntered past your oven, eyes on the blueberry muffins you had made for tomorrow. He was tall and lean, cutting a particularly imposing figure in his dark pants and leather jacket. Since it was late in the day, his hair, which he normally kept slicked back with some kind of greasy-looking product, was starting to curl at the ends. “These look fan-fucking-tastic.”

“Don't touch those.”

“The fuck you just say to me?” he snapped, turning to watch your approach. You had been rolling out some dough on the metal island and wiped your flour covered hands on your pants.

“I told you not to touch them...sir,” you tacked on at the last second.

“You think you got some right to tell me what to do with  _ my  _ muffins? The ones you made from  _ my  _ resources? For  _ my  _ fucking wives?” His entourage members stood behind him, looking on, no doubt with bloodlust.

You bit your lip. “I'm sorry, sir. Help yourself.”

He smiled with cocky pleasure at your submissive compliance and snatched one of the muffins, shoving it in his mouth and chomping down on half of it. 

You tried not to savor the way his eyes bulged in alarm as the fresh from the oven muffin burned his mouth. 

To his credit, he didn't spit it out but swallowed quickly, attempting to hide a little cough. Then he dropped the remaining half of the muffin back in the tin.

You reached for a chipped coffee mug and then grabbed some milk from the big, noisy fridge and poured some for him. 

He took it with a grateful look. “Yeah, yeah,” he said after he swallowed, “I had that shit coming. You don't have to fucking gloat about it.”

“Wouldn't you be gloating if our positions were reversed?”

“Sure I would, but I'm an asshole. People expect that shit from me,” he said the words as much as to his audience as to you. “Cute Little Miss Muffin bakers are supposed to be all sunshine and lollipops.”

“Sorry to disappoint.” 

“Oh, Sugar, believe me, you never do.”

You chuckled, used to his flirtatious nature by now. “Give those muffins a few minutes, and they'll be edible. Anyway, I baked you something special today.”

“Something special? For me?” He crossed his hands over his chest in mock excitement. “What is it?”

You turned to the counter behind you and grabbed the old, heavy pie dish that had been cooling for the last hour and a half. When you turned back to the island, he had already stepped into your space, and you noticed that his group of followers had been dismissed. Negan's bat Lucille now rested against a set of lower cabinets. You looked up at him and then took a couple of steps back.

He smirked at you and then looked down at the pie. “Are you shitting me? Is that apple pie?”

“I remembered you said something a couple of weeks ago about missing it,” you said as you set the dish onto the counter, “so when the workers brought some apples in, I figured you deserved first crack.”

He thought it over. “Wasn't I in the middle of laying down the law on some assholes who finished all the apple wine when I said that?”

You nodded.

He grinned. “You are too fucking sweet. I might have to start calling you something else. What's sweeter than sugar?”

You laughed as you got a plate, knife, and fork and cut him a slice of the pie. “Fructose, I think?”

“Don't have the same ring to it, huh?”

You shrugged. “You could just call me by my actual name.”

He met your eyes and searched your face for a moment. “Nah. You like it.” He took a heaping bite of his slice of pie. “Holy shit balls!” he exclaimed around the food in his mouth. “What did you do to this? They didn’t even make pie this good before the world went to shit.” He swallowed his bite and took two more while you tried to hide the fact that his praise made you preen. “How many points are we giving you?”

That was as good an in as any. “Actually, I was wanting to talk to you about that.”

“Ah, so that's what this special pie is about.” He took another bite. “And here I thought you were just trying to get into my pants. Gotta admit, I'm a little disappointed.” 

“Well, no. It’s--”

“Whatever you're making, I'll have them double it.”

“What?”

“You wanted a raise, right?”

“Well, not exactly.”

“Room not big enough?” 

“No, my room's fine.” You had a window that almost opened a crack and everything.

He finished his pie and turned to you. “Then what are you wooing me for?”

You swallowed as his full attention came down on you. “Someone started a rumor that I'm one of your wives now, and umm, I might've taken a little advantage of that and signed off on a bunch of purchases. But I'll pay them back, I promise. Actually, double points would be pretty great if that's still on the tab--”

He cut off your ramblings. “You telling me that people think you agreed to marry me?”

“Yeah, I know. It's pretty ridiculous.” 

“What's ridiculous about it?”

You suddenly had the feeling that you needed to tread carefully. “I’m not exactly wifey material. I don’t really like sitting around in a dress, doing my nails, waiting to see which one of us you choose to spend the night with.”

“Now there’s the ridiculous part, Sugar. You think a man with as many wives as I have only fucks one of ‘em a night?”

You bit your lip. “I stand corrected. I just mean it’s not really for me.”

He smirked again. “You saying you wouldn't want to be married to the most powerful man around, just because he has multiple wives?”

If anyone had asked you before the world went to Hell if you would want to marry just for status and security, you would have told them “no” immediately. You'd been an idealist Before. But the daily struggle to survive, the things you’d had to do before coming to the Sanctuary, had made you a little more practical. “No, I'm not saying that.”

“So then you do want to be one of my wives.”

“I didn't say that either.”

“I’m not hearing a ‘no’.” He tapped his chin with a forefinger. “Know what? I think you liked the little taste of wifey perks you had today. How about we make it official?”

You blinked. Twice. “Are you asking me to marry you?” 

“Sweetheart, the offer’s been on the table since you made that first cake to celebrate taking The Hilltop.”

“Oh.” You remembered that night. “I thought you were joking.”

“I don't joke when it comes to marriage.” He helped himself to another slice of pie. “So now that you know the offer's serious, whaddya say? Ready to be my wife?”

You thought about it. Negan was pretty intense, even scary sometimes. But he was fun, too. You were sort of becoming addicted to the personal attention he gave you when he came for his visits to your part of the factory kitchen, usually once or twice a week. But there were a lot of extra rules that came with being one of his wives, and you were keenly aware that those rules didn't apply to him. “I think I'll pass, if that's okay.”

His fork scraped the plate, the sound loud and discordant, but he shrugged. “Suit yourself. But just so you know, I got a pretty good track record when it comes to turning ‘noes’ into ‘yeses.’”

“I don't doubt it.” You cut a small slice of pie for yourself and took a bite. “So listen, about the points. How do you want me to handle it?”

“What all kinds of luxuries did wifey status buy you?”

You walked over to the cardboard box that held your haul. You hadn't had a chance to drop anything off in your room before reporting back to the kitchen. As you riffled through the box, you told him what you had, adding the things Krys had talked you into getting for them.

Negan joined you and started pulling out items to inspect them for himself. “Nice,” he said, taking out a purple tank top and a pair of black pants with several handy pockets. “And what do we have here?” he asked as he unburied various pairs of panties and bras.

“Just some things I needed.” You jerked the underwear out of his hands.

He grinned. “When you accept my offer, I'm thinking a little fashion show is going to be in order. I'm partial to those polka dotted panties I saw in there. Real cute.”

You slid the box away and tried not to think about where a private underwear fashion show for Negan would lead. Your mind offered up several steamy possibilities before you managed to get her to focus. “I can give it all back.”

“Don't you dare,” he said, voice just this side of a threat. “Ain’t your fault if these idiots listen to whatever waggling tongue they hear.” He scrubbed at his chin for a second. “Tell you what, enjoy it all, with my blessing. Maybe let me catch a peek at that sexy underwear from time to time. And if you need anything else, just sign away. I'll take care of it.”

You swallowed thickly, wondering what sort of strings might eventually be attached to this offer. Negan wasn't exactly known for his benevolence. 

“So,” he began, returning to his pie, “got any sick family members need taken care of? Maybe someone who wants to live above their station?”

“No,” you said slowly, confused by the turn in conversation, “not really.”

“That’s how I end up with most of my wives, you know. They make some sort of sacrifice for someone or something they love.”

Well, that explained why none of them ever looked particularly happy, despite their elevated station and life of relative ease and comfort. “None of my people really made it through all of this,” you made a vague gesture.

“That’s too bad.”

“I’ve got my friend Krys though.”

“Which one’s Krys?”

You gave him a description of your friend, adding, “You know, they cut hair and always manage to somehow look glamorous.”

“Oh, the baldy. Why didn’t you just say so?”

You pinched the bridge of your nose and sighed. “Because I have tact.”

He chuckled, shoving in his last bite of pie. “No time for tact when we’re rebuilding the world.” He had a point. “Speaking of, I’ve got to get a move on.” He started for the door, picking up Lucille on his way out and setting her over the line of his shoulder. “Have someone send the rest of that pie up to my office.” He turned and looked back. “And Sugar, if you decide you want to explore some of the other perks of being my wife, you know where to find me.”


	2. Chapter 2

A week after your discussion with Negan, Krys was promoted from barber to exclusive parlor beautician and spa guru. 

“Oh my God, it’s fabulous up there. You have no idea,” Krys told you one evening a few weeks into their new position. Now that they had a less demanding job, your friend had actual free time to hang out. 

You were kneading bread dough for the next day. “Don’t they just sit around gossiping and playing cards?” you asked.

“Yes. Isn’t that incredible?” they bounced. “I mean, can you even remember doing shit like that Before? Having actual time to kill?”

Actually, you found that you still had far too much free time. It had been five weeks since the rumor had started, and you were still getting a lot of side eye. As a result, you tried to stay out of the common areas as much as possible. This kept you from answering awkward questions, like, “Why aren't you in the parlor?” “Why on earth are you still working?” And the most common: “How big is Negan's dick?” 

Of late, you found yourself wondering about that last question more often than you were willing to admit. After all, since word had spread you were off the market, you hadn't had many offers to see any other dicks and didn't anticipate receiving any until a.) the rumor finally died down, b.) the Sanctuary had a sudden influx of fresh meat, i.e. guys who didn't know better, or c.) Negan finally set everyone straight. You’d suggested he do so just about every time he came to visit, but he always found a way to put you off.

Your continued status as “not actually Negan’s wife” left you with more idle time than you’d ever had before. Since coming to the Sanctuary, you’d already read all the books you could get your hands on, some of them twice. Even though theoretically, you had free reign to take whatever you wanted, you’d limited yourself to the absolute basics of what you needed. Negan had still visited as often as before and hadn’t yet brought up repayment. And despite his penchant for instant gratification, you knew your boss could be a patient man when he wanted to. 

You really weren’t sure what he wanted from you outside of sex. Maybe he just couldn’t handle being told “no.” You’d read somewhere that that was a trait of psychopaths, probably in an academic journal that had been taken from a library raid. Or it could’ve been from the “So You’re Dating a Narcissist” article you’d stumbled across in a tattered copy of  _ Cosmo _ .

A pair of long fingers with freshly manicured nails painted in emerald with gold streaks snapped in front of your field of vision. “Hello? Earth to Cooking Mama.”

You blinked and looked at Krys. Now that they were working with the wives, they had regular access to real cosmetics and had shaded their eyes in amber, hot pink, and red, with thick, black lines. Apparently fake lashes were also available to those with top floor access. 

“Hmm?” you asked.

“I asked you if you could remember having free time.”

Oh. Right. “I mean, I still have a fair amount of time on my hands.” Most of your work was done in the wee hours of the morning or later in the evening, so you had about seven to ten hours to kill every day, depending on which recipes you were using. Maybe you needed a hobby. You felt Krys watching you as you set the doughy loaves on the waiting sheet pans.

“You know,” they said, in an overly casual tone, “I heard Frankie and Tanya talking about how much they’d like some cookies to snack on while I’m doing my thing. Maybe that’s something you could make happen?”

It was rare you had the ingredients for a proper cookie, but you managed plenty of tiny tartlets filled with whatever canned fruits made it to your work space. If you had to make enough for the wives every day, that would keep you busy for at least another hour. “Sure, I could do that.”

“Sweet. How about you bring some up tomorrow?”

“To the parlor?”

“Duh,” Krys replied.

You looked them up and down. Even though Krys wasn’t a wife, they’d started dressing in somewhat snug black pants with long black overshirts since their new appointment. Today, they even had black high-heeled boots. It seemed there was a parlor dress code, even for the employees. “I think I’ll just send Chubby Joe or someone up with them.”

“Don’t they call him Fat Joey?”

“Well yeah, but I mean, I’m sort of contributing to the overeating. Seems kind of wrong to call one my favorite patrons fat.”

Krys laughed. “Babe, you are one of a kind.”

  
  
  


\-------------

  
  
  


“I'm going to lay you out across that island and eat your pussy.”

You jerked your head up to see Negan leaning in the kitchen doorway. It was sometime after lunch the next day, and a dozen cake mixes from the most recent haul had been dropped off with you on “bosses’ orders.” You'd been belting out a duet with David Bowie under the serious moonlight and shaking your ass as you whisked the batter. But you clammed up real quick when you saw your boss, whisk slipping from your hand and into the massive metal bowl of chocolate cake batter.

Negan sauntered into the room and switched off your CD player. “That's going to be our wedding ceremony. Me, defiling you, right about here,” he tapped Lucille against the metal island's surface as he said the last three words. “I've had the image stuck in my mind on repeat for,” he touched his temple and let his fingers loop through the air a few times, “well, let's just say it's been a while.”

“You paint quite the romantic picture,” you said, trying to focus on fishing out the whisk rather than visualizing the graphic scene. Keeping your mind on the task at hand was more of a struggle than you were willing to admit. You hadn’t gotten laid since a few weeks before the whole wifey rumor had taken hold, and you couldn’t really remember the last time anyone besides you had given anything besides your ego a good stroking.

“I been told I got a way with words,” he said.

“Any women ever told you that?”

He laughed. “So what do you think?”

“About?” You shook off the excess batter off the whisk.

“Our impending nuptials.”

You turned to the sink and dunked the whisk into the bucket of mostly clean water and made short work of rinsing it off. “Are you suggesting that if I were to become one of your wives, sex in the kitchen would take place of an  _ actual  _ wedding ceremony?” 

“You betcha.” He laid Lucille across an empty counter delicately so that he could better express himself with his hands. “Now I know a lot of gals spend years fantasizing about white dresses, flowers, cake, and shit, but that just ain't how we do things around here. You know, conserving resources and all that,” he waved his hands. 

“Negan.”

He went on as though you hadn’t spoken, coming around the island. “And when you think about it, you're getting a pretty good deal here. Me and Frankie sort of rolled around in the mud when we made things official. Hot as fuck at the time, but in retrospect,” he scratched his chin, “I'm not sure it was worth having to retire my favorite leather jacket.”

“Negan,” you tried again.

“‘Course I am a reasonable man,” he mused, sauntering closer. “If you want to negotiate the time and place of said consummation, I might consider a compromise. Know what they say, happy wife, happy life.”

“Negan!”

“No need to yell, Sugar,” he chided as he stepped into your space. “At least,” he beamed a toothy grin on you, “not until you're in the throes of passion.”

You took a deep breath and let it out slowly, shaking the water from the whisk. “Negan,” you said tightly, “we're not consummating anything. I never said ‘yes.’”

He lifted his chin. “You sure about that? Here lately, my own wives are asking why you haven't been moved up to their floor.” He tapped his fingers against his jaw. “Even I'm starting to wonder if there might be something to it.”

You narrowed your eyes. “That’s because you gave your wives Krys, who pretty much makes gossip an art form.”

Another shameless grin spread across his face. “I did do that, didn't I?”

You twisted your body so that you fully faced him, whisk in hand. “Well if you're thinking that you can force my hand by taking Krys’s job away, you can think again.” You jutted your chin out. “I won't stand for it.”

He seemed more amused by you than anything. “And what will you do? Poison my food?”

“Worse.” You poked him in the chest with the whisk. “I'll make sure everything tastes as bad as it used to when you were letting One Eyed Steve do the baking.”

He made a disgusted face. One Eyed Steve's bread was more like the hardtack that belonged on pirate ships of yore. “You wouldn't.”

“Try me.” You put your fists on your hips and took a step closer.

“You telling me what to do?” His tone carried that tight edge you’d been waiting for.

“No. I wouldn't do that.” You crossed your arms over your chest. The whisk you were still holding made it a bit awkward, but you managed. “I just know that somewhere, deep down,” like, really deep, “you're a good man. And like you said, ‘happy wife, happy life.’ How upset do you think your wives would be to lose their new beautician?”

His mouth twitched, but he bit his lip, and instead of making fun of you, said, “I'll admit that the original motivation behind bringing Krys into the parlor might have been to entice you there with a taste of the good life.” When you glared, he rushed to say, “But your friend doesn't have anything to worry about. Wives One through Four have made it clear they're prepared to withhold indefinitely if I take Krys away.”

This mollified you somewhat. “What about your other wives?”

He shrugged. “They’re shit at blow jobs.”

Ugh, you had to ask. “TMI, Negan.”

He chuckled. “Never would've fingered you for a prude, Sugar, maybe a little gun shy, but--”

“It's figured,” you corrected.

“What?”

“The saying. It's ‘I never would have  _ figured _ you for a prude,’ or whatever you're labeling the person as.”

He cocked his head to the side, taking a moment to consider. “Pretty sure it's  _ fingered _ ,” he said finally. 

“I'm pretty sure you just want an excuse to say that word.”

“To say what word?”

You rolled your eyes at his antics. “I'm making chocolate cake,” you told him, turning back to the bowl on the island and whisking a bit more. “You can lick the spoon if you behave yourself.”

“Where's the fun in that?” He stepped up beside you and leaned his hip against the island, and the next thing you knew, two fingers were tickling your side, right beneath your ribs.

You jerked away, nearly losing the whisk to the batter again. “What are you doing?”

Negan grabbed your shirt again and slotted two fingers through the hole in the side that you hadn’t had a chance to mend yet. You grabbed your shirt back and when he didn’t let go quickly enough, the hole tore a couple more inches so that it was ripped almost to the bottom seam. “Jesus,” he said, “your clothes are falling apart.”

“They are not falling apart,” you told him, plucking the remains of your shirt tail from his fingers.

“I thought you got some new shit.”

“I did, but only one outfit, and I don’t wear it to work. If I did, it would end up like everything else I own.”

He narrowed his eyes. “I told you to get what you needed.”

“And I did. I only needed one new outfit.” Well, new to you.

He cut his eyes up and away, almost like an eye roll. Wait. That was your thing. Did he actually just roll his eyes at you? Before you could ask, he scrubbed his hand over his face and looked back down at you, his irritation obvious. “How many people around here you think’ve heard that rumour about you being my wife?”

You shrugged. “Seems like just about everyone.”

He slammed a hand on the island hard enough to make you jump. “And they’re seeing you walking around in rags every day?”

“Well I think ‘rags’ is a bit extreme, don’t you?”

“I think ‘just about everyone’ is going to think that I’m not taking care of one of my wives.” He wrapped a hand around your upper arm and started tugging you toward the door. “And I ain’t about to stand for it.”

“Wait. Where are we going?”

“Shopping.”

“Shopping? I can do that myself.”

“You’ve had more than a month to shop. Obviously you need a helping hand.”

“Negan,” you pleaded, grabbing the door frame in passing, and digging your heels in. When he faced you, you could see the determination on his face. Regardless of your refusal to be a wife, he meant business. “Why don’t you just call a meeting and set everyone straight?”

“You kidding? The last gal who left my little sisterhood of wives had to put up with every Tom, Dick, and Harry in the joint salivating for the big man’s sloppy seconds.”

You ignored the third person reference to himself--“So You’re Dating a Narcissist” had warned you of this--and instead focused on the rest of what he’d said. “You mean instead of dropping their eyes and walking the other way, men would be lining up at my door?”  _ Ka-ching! _ your brain squealed in delight.

“You’d have to come up with a number system and everything. But don’t you worry,” he winked, “I’m going to take such good care of you that no man will dare darken your door again.”

That’s what you were worried about.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's _probably_ only one more part to this. If you're so inclined, let me know your thoughts.


End file.
